


And this, your beating heart

by sluttysuperheroes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post Season 2, i looked at din djarin and i said bitch let's get you some emotional healing, if you're looking for mand'alor!din content this is probably not your jam, juggling responsibility to self vs. other etc., obviously because i'm not an asshole, this fic made by din is a malewife gang, this is a lot about Din facing his Trauma and considering what his creed really means to him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-23 06:21:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30051225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sluttysuperheroes/pseuds/sluttysuperheroes
Summary: After winning the Darksaber from Moff Gideon, Din accepts his role as the new leader of Mandalore and returns to the ancestral home of his people. While he grapples with the responsibilities that come with his new title, he begins to build a friendship with Grogu's new Jedi master -- and begins to question his identity, his Creed, and his place in the galaxy.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda & Luke Skywalker, Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 87
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

The wound isn’t deep -- a lucky shot from a blade that had pierced just underneath Din’s armor on his right side -- but it is painful. Din labors back to his campsite, blood oozing between his fingers as he presses down against the bleeding gash.

He lowers himself onto the log he’d set up in front of his campfire, wincing slightly in pain as the movement pinches his wound. Gritting his teeth, he pulls the fabric of his under armor away from the wound to get a better look -- not an easy task at this angle. 

From what he can make out in the light of the fire, it isn’t a deep wound, likely not fatal, but it is bleeding badly; his glove is soaked in blood from where he’d been holding the wound. 

He lets out a long exhale and pushes his palm back against the gash with a steady pressure. With his other hand, he rifles through his pack for some bacta gel when, from behind him, he hears the distinct sound of a lightsaber igniting. Immediately following, a soft green glow appears in his periphery, just over his left shoulder. 

“What’s this?” A familiar voice croons. “A Mandalorian caught off his guard?” 

Unthreatened, Din doesn’t react, except to glance over his shoulder at the Jedi.

“Skywalker,” he greets flatly. “Dramatic as always.”

The Jedi gives a laugh, withdrawing his lightsaber. “Me?” 

He moves closer to Din, stepping into his line of sight. Din intentionally avoids looking at him and continues searching through his pack.

He should have learned his lesson long ago that attempting to hide anything from a Jedi is essentially pointless. Still, he tries.

“You’re hurt,” Luke says, his playful expression shifting immediately to one of concern.

“It’s nothing,” Din intones automatically, as he finally finds his medpac, which was conveniently at the very bottom of his pack. 

The Jedi removes his hood and crosses the short distance to kneel in front of the Mandalorian, who continues to avoid looking at him. Din stubbornly fumbles with the lid to the medpac, his other hand still pressed against the bleeding wound. 

Unexpectedly, the Jedi places a gentle hand on his knee. Din freezes, like he’s been hit by a stun bolt, but his heart rate quickens and mind races and still he continues to look away.

“Din,” Luke says. His voice is soft and deliberate. Reverent. It’s clear that saying Din’s name is not something he takes lightly. 

Din finally turns his head and looks at him. When he meets the Jedi’s eyes, something goes through him like a bolt of lightning. There’s such a direct tenderness in Luke’s face that’s directed completely at him, and Din feels entirely disarmed. 

And there’s a feeling, a feeling he gets every time he’s with Luke, a warmth that starts in his chest and travels to settle in the pit of his stomach. He perceives the feeling, acknowledges it, has grown to know it well -- but he can’t name it. 

“Here.” Luke reaches out his hand, gesturing for the medpac. “Let me.” 

Din hesitates for a moment, then hands it over without argument. 

“What are you doing here?” Din asks. Assuming the worst, he adds: “Is Grogu alright?”

“Of course,” Luke responds. There’s a gleam in his eye, the smallest hint of mischief that appears when Luke is teasing him. “Leia is more than capable of handling his training for a few days. They’ll be fine.” 

“Hm,” Din grunts, accepting that, and pulls his hand away from the wound so Luke could treat it. 

The Jedi removes a sterile cloth from the medpac and gingerly places it against the wound. It stings, but Luke’s hand is gentle as he begins to wipe away the blood. 

“What are you doing here?” Din repeats.

“Following a distress call,” Luke answers, blotting at the wound. 

“From who?”

“You.” Once Luke cleans the wound as best he can, he reaches for the bacta gel.

Din’s brow furrows behind his helmet. “I didn’t send out a distress signal.”

Luke says nothing, focused on smearing a layer of bacta gel over the gash. He feels the warmth of Luke’s hand on his skin before he feels the warmth of the gel start to spread over his side.

Din swallows and, although he tries not to think of it, he can’t help but realize it’s been a long time since he’s felt the touch of another person on his skin.

His mind drifts back to their topic of conversation from before. “You used your Jedi… magic to find me. Didn’t you?”

Luke’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “Yes.”

“Why?” Din looks at him and Luke stares right back. It’s uncanny the way it often seems like the Jedi can see straight through his visor and right into his eyes. 

“I sensed you would be in trouble.”

Din frowns, still somewhat uncomfortable with these powers he can never hope to understand, and looks away from him. “You’re a little late,” he points out. 

“I’m sorry for that,” Luke murmurs, with complete sincerity. 

Din shifts in his seat, feeling like he’s rather out of his depth in this conversation. “It’s fine.” He tries to sound unaffected, but his voice wavers, betraying him.

“Who did this?” Luke asks evenly, still giving Din that direct look that makes him squirm. 

But Din suspects the Jedi already has some idea of the answer. 

“Let’s just say I found your Mandalorians,” he responds. “They wanted the Darksaber.”

“They did this to you?” Luke’s voice conveys surprise.

“Yes.”

“They challenged you?”

“Yes.”

Luke is silent for a few moments, but then that playful smile returns, just barely on the edges of his mouth. “I imagine that didn’t go so well for them.”

“No, it didn’t.”

There’s another beat of silence. “Din, I’m sorry. I never would have given you that lead if I had known--”

“I know.” Din’s voice is soft as he cuts him off.

“They’ll be back.”

“I know.”

Luke turns his body toward the fire and rests his wrists on his knees, staring into the flames. 

Subtly, Din watches him, only turning his helmet ever so slightly to make it less obvious. The flickering light of the fire casts a gentle glow over the Jedi’s face, emphasizing the shadows in his features, while somehow also softening them. Under the pale orange light, the hard lines in his face seem to melt away, leaving only the vague impression of a man, righteous and golden with untold power. And yet, there’s a pervasive gentleness to Luke, molded ineffably into his features, always present just underneath the surface.

It’s his gentleness, his humility, that lingers in Din’s mind the most. 

Din thinks of someone like Bo Katan, someone like Moff Gideon. Who among them could hope to be so noble when granted with such power? 

Din’s eyes drift to Luke’s hands -- one gloved and one not -- and he knows this is a man who, like him, has killed. This is a man who has done great violence and had great violence done to him. There is no true nobility in this galaxy, Din thinks, but every once in a while you might get lucky enough to encounter something that looks a lot like it -- even if it's just a trick of the light. 

Din looks at Luke’s hands and he can still feel the memory of his touch, lingering on his side. He could try to convince himself it’s just the residual effects of the bacta gel, but he knows it isn’t that. 

And then there’s that feeling again. It settles over and around him like smoke from the fire, warming him up from the inside out. Much of his life has been cold, isolated, metallic. But, here, in the presence of the Jedi, he starts to understand a kind of intimacy he’s never known before. He begins to desire it. 

That unsettling thought is enough to snap him out of his reverie -- and he remembers, suddenly, something Bo Katan had said to him about Jedi and their powers. 

“Bo Katan said something to me,” Din speaks up, breaking the momentary silence. Then, he hesitates. He needs to ask the question, but he’s afraid to hear the answer. 

Luke looks over at him, listening intently.

“She told me Jedi can sense… emotions,” Din continues. “From other people. That they can feel what the people around them feel.” Din looks over at Luke. “Is that true?”

For a moment, Luke doesn’t answer, clearly thinking over his response. Then, he nods. “It’s true,” he replies with candor, “but it’s not how you think. It’s not… purposeful. To be connected with the Force is to be connected with all living things, so I feel…”

Din doesn’t hear much of what he says after that. Embarrassment burns white hot in the center of his chest, flanked by a feeling like anger. He feels betrayed, somehow, like he’s been laid bare completely and without his permission. He already knew that Luke could sense things most people couldn’t, that the Force gave him unnatural perceptiveness, but he had never considered that his own feelings might not be private. It seems impossible, unthinkable, that someone could have that kind of power, but he’s never known Luke to lie.

And if Luke can truly sense what people feel, then that means he knows. He has to have sensed this feeling, the one that Din can’t even stand to name. 

That idea wounds him and quickly begins to fester; there are few things Din hates more than feeling exposed. There are few things he likes less than feeling vulnerable. The idea that the Jedi might know how he feels, with or without his permission, fills him with anger. Whether or not it’s fair is irrelevant; the anger builds steadily in his chest and pumps like blood through his veins.

“...it’s outside my control,” Luke continues on, then trails off. No doubt he’s able to feel the turbulent mix of emotions from his companion.

Luke regards him for a moment, saying nothing, then says, “this bothers you. Doesn’t it?”

“Don’t you already know the answer to that?” Din counters, bitterly. 

A sad sort of smile flickers across Luke’s face, only for a second, before he turns his attention back to the fire. “I’m sorry,” he says for the third time, and sounds like he means it. “I wish there were something I could say to make it easier.”

Din feels anger rising in his throat, cold and spiteful, and he begins to lash out before he can think better of it. “You can’t make it easier,” he growls. “I don’t appreciate having my mind read. And I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself.” 

Luke doesn’t rise to the provocation. He doesn’t even look at the Mandalorian. He only gives another sad smile and stares into the fire for another moment.

“You’re right,” he says, standing. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

This does nothing to soothe Din’s anger, which only continues to rise. He swallows down another hateful comment like bile and clenches his hands into fists. 

Luke puts his hood back over his head and steps away from Din. “I’m glad you’re alright,” he tells him. “I hope you’ll come see Grogu soon. He misses you.” 

A pang of sadness stabs through Din’s chest and he’s unable to say anything. He hears Luke walk away, but doesn’t watch him go. At the thought of Grogu, tears begin to fall from his eyes, but it’s still not enough to assuage the anger he feels. 

But somewhere, underneath the anger, he knows the real reason he’s upset and it isn’t the Jedi’s fault. But he can’t confront it, can’t look directly at it, so he sits and simmers in front of the fire for a long time. Finally, exhaustion settles in, so he douses the fire and returns to his ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so thanks for reading!! 
> 
> the next couple chapters will detail what happened/the build up before this. also if you noticed me blatantly stealing lines from LOTR no you didn't <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all the nice comments on the last chapter!!! i read every single one of them and they all made me smile. i am so glad you all liked it and i'm so excited to continue working on this project <3 this chapter is a bit longer, so i hope you enjoy!
> 
> also the jedi academy is on naboo because i say it is! star wars canon is a beach and i'm just playing in the sand xo

_[8 MONTHS EARLIER]_

Din’s house on Mandalore was cold and empty.

After winning the Darksaber and arriving on the desolate planet, he had been given his own place to take up residence. It had seemed superfluous to him, but Bo Katan and the others had insisted. It was only proper, they’d reasoned. He was the Mand’alor, after all, and it wasn’t like there was any shortage of empty houses on Mandalore.

Din’s house was small, per his request, and consisted only of a bedroom, a kitchen, a refresher, and nothing else. Its furnishings were spartan, the walls were bare, and very little light filtered in from the blinded windows.

It didn't matter much, since Din hardly spent any time there, anyway. Bringing a shattered culture back from the dead took a lot of work, as it turned out. The new Mand’alor spent all his time in the Council Chambers trying to organize the clans, or out on distant planets trying to track down more of his kind.

On one unfortunate evening, however, he found himself alone in the house with not much to do -- a state of being which he tried to avoid at all costs. His armor was recently polished, his blasters were clean and taken care of, and all the mechanisms in his armor were in good order. The Council had adjourned for the day and there was no news of any new Mandalorian coverts to be found and brought home.

In other words, he had run out of things to do for the first time in months. Exhaustion began to settle in, but there was still plenty of time left in the day. He sat in the kitchen, drumming his fingers against the table, and stared at the blank, gray wall across from him.

He sat in the kitchen, his helmet on the table next to him, and began to feel hate, forming in his sternum-- a feeling that only grew with every moment he sat and simmered in the dim lighting. He hated this house and he felt that hate growing inside of him like a disease. He hated all the bare, empty space and the constant, stifling quiet that was only broken by the clinical sound of the ancient appliances whirring. He hated being there, because when he was there he was exhausted, but he couldn’t stand to be there and be awake.

Slowly, the hate inside him began to shift. It swirled, turning over in his gut until it reformed and, all at once, he felt sadness come over him like a wave.

To his own surprise, he found himself thinking about the _Razor Crest_. He had thought a lot about the old ship in recent days. He mourned her, in a way, like he might mourn a lost limb or a loved one.

It was strange how he’d never really considered the ship to be a home; he’d mostly thought of it as a way to get from place to place. But, now that the _Crest_ was gone, he was surprised at how much he missed it. He missed how intimately he knew that space, how it had been too small, too functional, to ever really feel empty. Things had been simpler when it had been just Din, Grogu, and the _Crest_ there for them to return to. He felt somehow adrift without it, like he had nowhere to return, no place of solace where he could ground himself.

And he missed Grogu.

He tried to keep from thinking about him, tried to keep himself busy enough that he never had to. But it didn’t work, of course. He thought about Grogu all the time. His absence was like a presence all its own and it hovered over Din, followed him like a shadow. In any moment of stillness, of silence, he thought of the kid. He thought of the little home they’d made, somehow, on the _Razor Crest_ , and the easy rapport they’d built.

He sat in the barren house, dry-eyed and silent, and his sadness ran through him. As consumed as he was by this grief, no tears formed, no sounds of sadness broke the silence. What would be the use? It wouldn’t do anything to assuage his grief. His grief lived with him, inside him, and he carried it with him everywhere. Three months without Grogu and no amount of catharsis ever made the weight of his absence any lighter or any more tolerable.

Equally intolerable was the weight of the Darksaber. It hung heavy at his side, a constant weight and burden, a reminder of the immense responsibility he now carried -- a responsibility he never wanted.

Unable to sit any longer, he stood from the table, sending the chair shooting out behind him. He moved to the holo projector in the bedroom and checked it for any messages.

There was one, he noticed, that flashed across the projector as he turned it on. Din’s stomach flipped when he recognized the personal code: a message from Master Skywalker.

He opened the message and was greeted by the face of the Jedi, carrying Grogu against his chest. Grogu beamed when Skywalker told him the recording had started and the child waved a clawed hand in greeting.

Finally, tears began to fall from Din’s eyes, slowly and against his will, as he watched the recording.

The Jedi, always with an amiable smile, spoke of Grogu’s progress, how well he was doing with his teachings, how much the other students adored him, how bright he was. Skywalker sent him a message like this about every other week and the gist of it was always the same.

‘Grogu is doing well.’

‘Everyone here adores him.’

‘He misses you.’

Din assumed that the Jedi had only the best of intentions by keeping him updated, but each of these recordings brought on fresh pangs of sadness. He was pleased, of course, that Grogu was doing so well in his studies, but this knowledge offered Din little comfort in his grief. Seeing him on the projector, but so far out of reach, was almost too difficult to bear.

He sent a few messages back, from time to time, but not as often as he knew he should. It hurt too much to think of him.

And still, Master Skywalker’s message ended the same way it always did:

“You have our coordinates,” the Jedi said, brightly. “I hope you’ll come see Grogu soon. He misses you. And Naboo is lovely this time of year,” he added with a smile.

Din closed the message and took a shuddering breath, swallowing back any more tears that would threaten to fall.

Unable to stay in this space for a moment longer, he turned on his heel and headed for the exit. Grabbing his helmet, he placed it on his head on the way out.

Outside the house, the air was thick and warm, like it always was inside the bio-dome. No matter how much he tried to get used to it, the air here never felt right. It was better than the inhospitable wasteland outside, but the air was undoubtedly artificial, always just slightly stale.

Din paced back and forth, the sun sinking above his head. After a few minutes, he came to am impulsive decision and his strides took him to Bo Katan’s front door. He buzzed, and it was only a few moments before the door slid open and he was faced with Bo Katan. She was still wearing her armor and her usual dry expression.

“Mand’alor,” she greeted, bowing her head. It always felt like she was somehow mocking him when she said it. "What can I do for you?"

“I’m leaving,” Din said, stiffly, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Just for a day or two.”

“Oh?” Bo Katan raised an eyebrow. “Is there news of more Mandalorians?” she asked, but she already knew the answer.

“No.” Din paused, expecting she wasn’t going to like what he said next. “I’m going to Naboo.”

As expected, Bo Katan’s expression turned slightly more sour and her mouth formed into a tight line. Unexpectedly, however, she didn’t attempt to argue with him, and simply gave him a nod.

“You’re in charge while I’m gone,” he told her. “And you know how to contact me if you need anything.” Din found he had no idea what else was necessary to clarify for a leader of a planet going off-world.

“Very well,” Bo Katan answered. “When can we expect you back?”

“A day,” Din repeated. “Maybe two.”

Bo Katan said nothing in response, merely regarded him with a look of slight distaste, and a curt nod. Uninterested in her approval, Din pivoted on his heel and headed toward his ship.

His new ship was, well. New. Newer, anyway, than the _Razor Crest_ and in much better condition. None of the buttons stuck when pressed, the hyperdrive always worked correctly, and the seats never creaked under his weight.

When people asked him how he liked his new ship, he would tell them it was perfectly fine, and it was. But he didn’t like it. Not really.

Once he had settled in the cockpit, he punched in the coordinates Master Skywalker had sent him and left Mandalore behind.

The flight to Naboo took about an hour and a half. The sun was just beginning to set when Din arrived at Skywalker's coordinates.

As he walked down the boarding ramp, he found himself facing a modest building in what seemed to be a fairly rural sector of the planet. Vines climbed up one side of the adobe walls and up the pillars of what appeared to be some kind of atrium, offset from the main building.

Only moments after Din exited his ship, a familiar figure, dressed in all black, appeared from the building and strode toward him. He carried in his arms an even more familiar figure.

Din felt himself break out into a grin when he spotted Grogu, who was waving at him as he was carried.

Skywalker handed the kid over to Din as soon as he was in reach and Din gladly scooped the little guy into his arms. He held Grogu against his chest for a short moment, then lifted him up so he could see him eye-to-eye -- well, close enough, anyway.

His voice came out strained and hoarse as he said, “Hi, kid.”

Grogu cooed and wrapped a little hand around Din’s thumb. He felt a lump rising in his throat as he moved to hold Grogu against his chest again.

“He’s happy to see you,” Skywalker told him, which reminded Din that he was there at all. “I’m glad you came.”

Din watched him for a moment, unsure what to say. The Jedi’s smile was warm and gracious, in a subtle way that felt somehow disarming.

"How did you know it was me?" Din asked, realizing he had not notified the Jedi he was coming.

Skywalker gestured to Grogu. "He sensed your presence as soon as you landed. And I sensed it through him."

Din had no idea what to make of that, or what to say in response to it.

"Well..." Din managed, awkwardly. “Thank you for taking care of him.” 

Skywalker nodded and, to Din’s relief, didn’t linger on the sentiment. He gestured toward the building. “You’ll come in?”

“Yes,” Din answered, then added, “if you don’t mind.”

Skywalker raised a brow, a playful smile toying at one corner of his mouth. “I asked, didn’t I?”

Din didn’t know what to say to that but, thankfully, the Jedi didn’t wait on an answer and instead gestured for Din to follow him. He complied and followed the Jedi up the walkway and into the entrance of the building.

The inside of the building was modest as well, and more rustic than what Din would have expected. The adobe walls, patterned with tapestries and a few paintings, sloped up to a domed skylight in the ceiling. Moonlight filtered in through the glass, shining pale light into what appeared to be some kind of common area. There were a few pieces of mis-matched furniture scattered throughout the room, and a wall of bookshelves on the far side. It looked more like a farm cottage than it did an academy for a lost, ancient religion, but Din was quickly learning that he had no idea what to expect from these Jedi.

In the center of the room, sitting underneath the skylight, was a young, dark-haired woman. She was perched on one of the linen couches, reading, her bare feet tucked up underneath her. She looked up from her book as Din and the Jedi entered, and Din began to feel somewhat awkward.

He felt like he was walking into someone’s home, invading their privacy. He had expected something more clinical, or at the very least more grandiose, based on the Jedi’s dramatic entrance when he had rescued Din and the others from the Dark Troopers. Instead, he felt like he had walked into an intimate family setting and interrupted their nightly routine.

However, neither Skywalker nor the woman seemed upset by his intrusion. The woman gave him a warm smile as she stood and greeted him.

“You must be Grogu’s father,” she beamed.

Din swallowed, still unused to being referred to as such. “I am.”

“I’m Leia,” the woman told him. “Luke’s sister. I run the Academy here with Luke.”

Din shifted his weight, moving Grogu over to the other side of his body, and cleared his throat. Polite conversation was never his strongest suit.

He noticed Skywalker glancing over at him. Perhaps he noticed Din’s discomfort, because he promptly pivoted the conversation to a new topic.

“Will you be staying here tonight, then?” Skywalker asked him.

That suggestion came as a surprise. Din had expected to sleep on his ship but, in truth, he hadn’t had much of a plan when he’d decided to come here.

Unable to accept the offer, he said, “No, I— That’s very kind, but I can sleep on my ship.”

The Jedi shrugged, always with a benevolent smile. “If you prefer, but it’s no trouble. We have extra rooms.”

Din shifted his weight again, uncomfortable and unsure how to accept the offer. Grogu, from his position nestled against Din’s chest, gave a little chirp. An encouragement, perhaps.

“If you’re… sure it won’t be an intrusion,” Din replied.

There was the tiniest hint of amusement in Skywalker’s eyes, very nearly hidden, as he answered, “No, not at all.”

“There’s food, if you’d like to eat,” Leia chimed in.

There appeared to be nothing but benevolence coming from the two Jedi, but Din’s discomfort only grew as the moments passed. He was painfully aware that he was more than a little out of his element in this situation.

“No, I--” Din cleared his throat. “No, thank you.”

If either sibling took issue with Din’s awkwardness, they didn’t show it. In fact, they both seemed completely at ease. An onlooker might have thought that Din was just their odd neighbor who popped in from time to time and the two of them were well used to his quirks. There was something relaxing about their unshakeable calmness -- and something a little unsettling.

“I’ll show you to one of our spare rooms, then,” Skywalker said. He stepped toward a hallway to their left that branched off from the main room and made a gesture for Din to follow him.

“It was nice meeting you, Mand’alor,” Leia said, as Din moved to follow her brother.

Din knew that was technically the proper way to refer to him, but it still made his insides squirm.

“Y-yes,” Din stuttered, before realizing that was probably not the appropriate response. “Nice to meet you,” he said back, and the words felt almost foreign as they left his lips.

Leia didn’t seem to take notice of his stumbling; her good-natured smile remained as Din followed Luke down the hallway.

The Jedi showed him to a small room at the end of the hall, which was modestly furnished like the room they were in before. Two twin beds flanked the room with a small wooden table in the center between.

“It’s not much,” Skywalker started to explain.

“It’s fine,” Din rushed to assure him, but his voice came out harsher than he intended. “Thank you,” he added.

The Jedi gave him another gracious smile. “Just let us know if you need anything.”

Din only nodded and the Jedi made his exit, shutting the door behind him as he left.

As soon as the door closed, Din let out a long exhale. These kinds of polite interactions always exhausted him and left him feeling like there was some unspoken social rule he’d probably broken.

Grogu seemed happy, however, and turned his head up to look at Din.

“Hey, buddy,” Din said to him, quietly. “I missed you.”

Grogu cooed and reached up toward Din’s helmet, a clear request.

It wasn’t as if Din could say no to him, so he obliged and removed his helmet, setting it on the table. He looked down at the child, now able to look at him through his own eyes, unimpeded, and his face broke out into a smile.

Grogu stared back at him and tilted his head, his ears twitching up.

Still smiling, Din moved to set Grogu on the table, then sat down on one of the chairs, facing him. He felt the tension he’d been carrying for the last three months start to bleed out of him as he listened to his surrogate son coo at him softly.

He may not have been able to read Grogu’s thoughts like the Jedi could, but he seemed happy.

“Seems nice here, huh, Grogu?” Din said, and reached up to lightly touch one of Grogu’s ears.

Grogu chirped.

“Luke and Leia seem… nice,” he mused, but he had to wonder at their generosity. The two of them had invited him in, opened their doors to him, and let him visit Grogu, seemingly without any conditions or anything asked in return. Their kindness seemed unwarranted toward a man who was a virtual stranger. He had to wonder what the catch was. What did they stand to gain from this?

“Oh--” And then Din remembered something. “I brought you something.”

Grogu’s ears perked up, in apparent excitement, and he tilted his head in a question.

Din reached into a pouch on his belt and brought out Grogu’s favorite bauble -- the silver ball he’d found in the wreckage of the _Razor Crest_.

Grogu cooed, his excitement only seeming to increase, and it was only moments before the ball shot from Din’s hand and into Grogu’s.

“Hey,” Din smiled proudly, “you’re getting pretty good at that.”

Grogu immediately started mouthing at the bauble.

“Just… don’t swallow it,” Din warned.

Grogu continued chomping on the ball, unimpeded by the warning, as always.

Din watched him for a few fond moments, chuckling. “Seems like they’re taking good care of you here,” he commented.

Grogu just stared at him with soft brown eyes as he mouthed at the silver ball. Looking at the kid, Din felt a part of himself starting to regrow and reform. There was a tenderness in his chest, a warm, soft feeling, that Din had not felt since Grogu had gone away. He had almost forgotten the feeling, but there it was again, reminding him how much he cared for the kid -- and how much his absence had affected him.

“You know, I’m technically the ruler of Mandalore now,” Din confided, very quietly. He said it almost jokingly, in an attempt to make light of the situation, but it wasn’t funny. A heavy weight turned over in his stomach as he spoke the words; even saying them out-loud felt wrong.

Grogu tilted his head. Pausing in his chewing, lowered the bauble from his mouth.

“Yeah. I don’t really like it, either,” he admitted. “And I don’t think I’m very good at it.” Din’s shoulders slumped as the weight of what he had just admitted came crashing down on him. There was a certain relief in having said it out-loud, but also a certain gloom in the realization that every word of it was true.

Slowly, Grogu reached down, wrapped a tiny hand around Din’s gloved finger and tugged. There was a question in his eyes as he peered up at Din’s face.

Din knew this request, so he again obliged and removed the glove from his hand.

Then Grogu placed his tiny, clawed hand in the center of Din’s palm, a ritual which the two of them had created some time ago. It had started long enough ago that Din could no longer remember exactly when they’d started doing it, but this had become their way of comforting each other. It was a way of expressing affection that didn’t need words or shared language.

Din’s heart melted at the familiar gesture and he felt a lump rising in the back of his throat as he gently wrapped his hand around Grogu’s smaller one.

They sat there like that for a little while, Grogu’s other hand still holding onto the bauble. Din tried not to think about the inevitable goodbye, the inevitable return to Mandalore and his dead, empty house, but the thought of it lingered in the back of his mind like an approaching storm cloud. With some effort, he pushed it from his mind and let himself be content in the present moment.

After a while, Din found himself talking absently to the kid, catching him up on everything that had happened since they’d parted ways. Grogu listened to every word, or seemed to. His head tilted left and right with apparent interest as Din talked.

Eventually, Grogu gave a little yawn, his big eyes blinking slowly, and Din realized it was getting past the kid’s bedtime.

“Let’s get you to bed, kid,” he murmured.

He took off his armor -- a complicated procedure, made easy by years of experience -- until only his soft under armor remained. Carrying Grogu, he pulled back the covers on one of the beds and climbed in.

Grogu chirped sleepily and nestled against his chest, then was out like a light within minutes. Din stared up at the ceiling for a long time after that, listening to Grogu’s quiet breathing, unable to fall asleep. Finally, he drifted off and slept more soundly than he had in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! i am hoping to update this fic on sundays, if all goes well. i already have the next couple of chapters written and just need to edit them. 
> 
> also, feel free to harass me on tumblr, if you feel so inclined. my url is beskarbussy lmao


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